NATIVE 2029
by agent-holtzy
Summary: The world is not the same as it was. The mutants are gone now. At least, so everyone thinks.
1. Native (1)

It was the second dry spell in four years.

The evidence of it clung to my jeans, dusted my hair, and left a taste in my mouth that no amount of nicotine could burn away. And I should've known; I had already lit up three times in the past hour, as it was.

As slowly as I dared, I took my left hand from the wheel, raising the cigarette that still burned between my fingers to my mouth. I inhaled. Yup, nothing had changed. It was still warm, still bitter.

No different from the last two. Or ten. Thousand.

Reflexively, I blew the smoke out of my lungs, and cast a glance at my watch.

It was too dark to see the face, but I knew it had to be almost nine.

Impatient, I exhaled again and switched lanes. Getting home before dark had never been at the top of my priorities, because some kind of circumstances usually prevented it, anyway.

And the circumstances usually had names. In this case, they were Hurnyss and McIntyre.

Rayeford Hurnyss owned a ranch on the land surrounding Holbrook.

There, he lived with his sister, Carla; Abbi, his daughter, and about twenty thoroughbreds.

For the whole morning and into the late afternoon, Raye and I had gone to nearly every fencepost on his property, stapling rows of wire back in place so that the horses wouldn't escape; replacing rotten posts with fresh ones. Abbi was still too young to be of any real help with the heavy lifting, but she had spent most of her time out there with us; usually trying to convince me to stay for dinner (I hadn't). Putting up fencing hadn't taken the entire day, but coaxing all of the mares and foals out of the stables and back into the pasture sure did.

Margot and Matthew McIntyre lived in the next county over from the Hurnysses and me, but they were the closest thing I would ever have to grandparents. And I was the closest thing to a 2009 John Deere owner's manual that they had. Which is why, when their barely working-tractor broke down, they hadn't called one of their neighbors. They'd called Raye's satellite phone while I was busy helping him repair the fencing.

As well as shooing his curious colts away from the barbwire, of course.

Somethin's wrong with it. S'makin' a funny noise when we try to start it, Margot's worried voice had confided from the other end, while Matt swore at the tractor in the background. Matt 'spects it's leakin' fuel somewhere again, Dae. Think you can come over and give it a look-see?

I exhaled again, letting out another bitter cloud. I'd told Margot I wouldn't be able to get to their tractor until the day after next, but that until then, I was sure that Tyra Fulton wouldn't mind if they used hers for a couple of days. And Tyra—a tatted, bottled blonde who lived on the half-acre across from the McIntyres—certainly didn't mind. Of course, it helped that I had immediately made Raye dial Tyra's number the second after Margot had hung up. It was just to to let her know I would personally never speak to her again if she didn't bail me out this one time. Something tells me I must've been a tad too convincing, because she believed me.

Harmonizing guitar riffs and trumpets brought me back to reality. In the cassette player, static mingled with the voice of an old man. He sang about falling down, down, down into a ring of fire. Cassettes were a dated and downright laughable method, but not as laughable as what the FM station played. Besides, mine was the only vehicle on the highway at that time of night; anything that sounded nice was a welcome distraction.

I turned the volume dial up and put more pressure on the gas pedal.

As much as I was used to being filthy, I was very ready to shower.

And probably cremate the clothes I was wearing, because the dust blown in from the fields wasn't all that stuck to me. In getting Raye's new posts up, we had to rip up the old ones before stapling the wire on.

And from time to time, I had been mostly on my knees in something that resembled, but smelled nothing like, mud. I knew that Raye's skittish new bay must've had something to do with it; I also knew very well by the end of the day what was smeared on my jeans. And Raye had known it, too.

All he had to do was take one look at me and he completely lost it. Even when Abbi told him to cut it out, daddy, he couldn't stop. If I hadn't been so tired I would have laughed it off right along with him then. But like I said, I was too tired. So I'd just taken the cash he'd promised me as payment for that day and left.

My foot was lagging on the gas again, and I forced myself to focus on driving within the speed limit without completely flooring it. Thankfully, all that followed my truck was a tumbleweed pulled from the roadside, and not a state trooper. Trust me when I say I was in no kind of mood to be asked for my license or registration. Not this century. Which, so far, sucked in more ways than one. I finished the cigarette in one long, suddenly shaky, draft. Grinding the butt in the cup holder didn't distract me, but the brief sting of the dying ember reminded me to look alive, because I was coming up on my exit.

Relieved, I shifted gears and glided up the ramp easily enough, trying to make a smooth transition into the main road. Even with headlights, it was hopelessly dark, but it made no difference to me. I knew where I was going, and it took me further from the highway; down older roads with no yellow lines to differentiate the right lane from the left. The asphalt finally started to give way to dirt paths, paths that cut through the Joshua trees and sage bushes. I felt more than heard the swish of stray branches and grasses against the peeling sides of the truck. Their earthy scent trickled in through the barely-open windows and I breathed it in.

It was still a million times better than tobacco.

I reached for the clutch and stepped on the gas again, this to help me up the steep hill that passed for a driveway. Just like I knew I would, I heard loud barks, and they only got louder as I got further up.

Pulling under my old improvised car port, I smiled and twisted the keys out of the ignition. I opened my door to a panting, overjoyed, four-legged bundle of fur that tried to climb into the truck to get at me.

"Hey, big girl," I shoved the keys in my back pocket, leaving both hands free to scratch behind soft ears. "C'mon," I patted both thighs and started out from under the metal roofing of the carport. "C'mon, let's go."

I sprinted the rest of the way to the house, and Kateph came after me as she always did.

Before I was even all the way up the porch steps, I could hear the landline ringing for dear life, all the way from the kitchen. Groaning, I got out my keys again and fumbled with the deadbolts.

Once again, I'd forgotten to disconnect the darned thing before I left the house.

I'd long since given up on trying to afford a cellular; those things had only gotten more and more expensive and there was no way I made enough with any of my jobs to meet the monthly payments. I'd decided that a regular handset suited me fine. But right now there was no telling who was calling, or how many times they'd already called.

If it's that same dad-blamed fool trying to sell me mudslide insurance, I thought, I'm gonna kill someone.

But much worse, what if it was Lloyd over at the Sheriff's office, telling me that my hunting license had expired? The house key was stuck fast and even after the door was open, it took a lot of twisting the knob before I could get it out of the lock. And the phone rang on while I struggled. "Dang it, dangitdangit," I hissed, nearly tripping over Kateph on my way in. The distance from the front door to the kitchen counter was only a jump through the living room. I grabbed for the handset just as the ringing stopped. "Yes?"

"D, it is 2029. How much do I have to pay you to get an actual phone?"

I could have kissed the receiver. It was just Tyra. I didn't really like her or anything—actually, I didn't like her at all—but I'd take twenty minutes of her big mouth over a call from the Sheriff's office. Besides, somehow she had convinced herself that she was my best friend. It was way too late to remedy that now.

It was way too late for a friendly phone call, too.

Exasperated, I slid to the floor, not even caring. Kateph came over and lapped my face with her warm tongue, as if to say she felt sorry for me. I smiled. It didn't really help, but she couldn't have known that.

"More than either one of us can afford," I muttered, carefully scratching behind her ears.

"Anyway," Tyra continued as if she hadn't heard me, and she probably hadn't, "I drove my tractor over to Matt's a few hours ago. Had to stay over forever tryin' to show him how the stupid thing worked. You owe me at least three hours of freedom, D."

Even though she didn't know it, I could clearly hear the child she wanted three hours of freedom from. In the background on Tyra's end, Sadey was shrieking in toddler-speak, happy in her own little world, probably throwing a toy. There were soft, quick thumps, and I knew that was the sound of her feet on Tyra's kitchen linoleum. I smiled again. It wasn't a bad sound, really. It made me remember...

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, in your dreams," I shot back. "I'll just add this to your other IOUs on my fridge." That said, I got up off the floor and shuffled past Kateph to said fridge. As late as it was, part of me was hoping I had at least one beer left in there. I would need it to get through this.

"Yeah, you're so funny," she said sweetly and sarcastically. "Margot said you were—Sadey honey, leave mama's hair alone," she broke off mid-sentence. "Margot said you were over at Raye and Carla's all day, right?"

I pushed aside a half-drunken bottle of milk and chewed my lip. "Uh, yeah," I told her. "That old fence of theirs was way past due." Leftovers, a Diet Coke that had gone flat, more leftovers...where was it...

"Oh, yeah. So...what'd you and Raye talk about?"

Nunya, I wanted to say, but I didn't. I kept up the search. "Mainly about his horses and how I scare the crap out of 'em. Literally," I added. It wasn't a lie. Raye's favorite stallion could care less about how close I got, but that wasn't the case with the others. If they could, they'd dash away as soon as I got within spitting distance.

It reminded me of Carla's old joke about how I must've been raised by wolves.

I still hadn't found that beer and I was starting to wonder if I was completely out again. On a whim, I opened the crisper drawer. It was empty. Of course. Why wouldn't it be?

I slammed it shut and said a word I hadn't used in years.

"What was that, D?"

Crap, Tyra was still on the line. I cleared my throat. "Uh, nothing."

"Huh. Well anyways, ya should let him take ya out sometime. Carla's been—Sadey, no, this is mama's phone. Carla's been telling me forever that he's crazy about ya," out of the blue she giggled like a teenage girl, "even though ya smell like a wet dog half the time. And Abbi absolutely adores ya."

At the word "dog," Kateph looked up at me and cocked her head to one side, as if that was my fault.

I closed my eyes, let my forehead rest on the closed freezer door, and groaned.

Not because what Tyra said was true, but because I did not need this right now. Or ever.

I didn't need it, or want it. I didn't need or want Raye in my life, either.

No matter how many skittish horses or adorable daughters that he had.

"Shouldn't you be putting Sadey to bed?" was all I could come up with.

"Whaddya think I'm trying to do?" Tyra had heard the noise I'd just made and now she sounded almost put out with me. "D, your—Sadey, come back here, baby. D, I didn't want to say it but ya might as well hear it from me: let the man take you out. And do it soon, because your e—"

Oh, for the love of Mike, not this again. Please God, not again.

A bit too forcefully, I slammed the receiver against my chest and muffled her next few words.

That was when I saw it. There was one bottle of Corona left, right behind a bag of apples.

I didn't even need a bottle opener to pop the lid; at that point I was desperate enough to bite the neck completely off. Between gulps, I could barely hear Tyra telling Sadey to come away from the front door, and by the squealing on the other end I knew she'd hauled her baby girl's butt away from it, herself. She was more than a little occupied. But just when I was about to hang up...

" Oh, I almost forgot why I even called ya," her voice suddenly dropped, as if she thought her two year-old would understand what she was saying, "didja hear about what happened in Phoenix last night? It was on TV this morning."

I hadn't. I didn't own a TV set, and my decades-old house radio had finally bit the dust. I hadn't gotten the chance to ride into town for a new one yet. As far as I knew, Tyra only watched and listened to tabloid stations that broadcasted all kinds of bull. So whatever had happened in Phoenix, it must've not been too important. "Don't tell me, some celebrity I've never heard of got arrested."

"No," Tyra insistently, "some dumb cholos had a run-in with a maniac."

My jaw stiffened. I almost hung up on her then and there before I remembered my raising.

What never ceased to just eat me up inside was that Tyra kept forgetting, the only thing that made me different from the "dumb cholos" was that my blood was one hundred percent Navajo, and theirs wasn't.

Of course, pride in one's race was just one of the many things Tyra was clueless about.

On the other end, Sadey began talking nonsense words in her tiny voice; I couldn't help but mentally pray that sweet little kid would not grow up to be as completely stupid as her mama. Most people in Holbrook, if they were honest, would agree that the last thing Tyra Louise Fulton needed to do was perpetuate her kind.

But Sadey really wasn't so bad. She was loud of course, and always seemed kind of . . . sticky.

But it wasn't like she could help herself. She was just two, after all. "What do you mean?" I finally asked after another sip of beer.

"Exactly what I just said! It was a state trooper that found the four of 'em, just all splayed out on the side of the highway. And when I say splayed out," she lowered her voice again, "I mean . . . ugh, everything. And it was a real mess. We're talkin', blood everywhere."

Nice, I thought. With that lovely picture, I took another swallow. I nodded as sarcastically as I could, right before remembering she couldn't see it. "Sounds great."

"Oh, it was the god awfulest thing. Somebody was sick enough to stab 'em in the gut and then go through their heads, D.

And they were missing arms, one a leg; the way the station carried on, it sounded like they were mauled by Freddy Kruger. Either that or some diseased bear. And they really were mauled, all over. Big, deep slashes and everything . . . ooh. D? You still there?"

There was an odd noise, and a sudden sharp sting in my palm. I looked down.

The bottle fell from my hand. In pieces. Tyra was asking me if I could hear her. I could, sort of.

The blood and alcohol dripping from my fingers was a little distracting.

"What did he look like?" My voice sounded awfully calm. Too calm. Too quiet. It was a very bad sign.

"What now?"

I rephrased that: "The guy that did it, Tyra. What did he look like?"

There was a sliver of brown glass stuck in my palm, and as I pulled it out, both hands shook. Another bad sign. Dimly, I heard my boots crunching larger shards of the bottle as I crossed to the sink to rinse my hand.

Of course, it was just instinct. I'd forgotten again . . .

Tyra huffed impatiently. "D, what'd ya say? I can't hear ya."

I knew I would hate myself for it in the morning, but I did it anyway.

"I said," the receiver was inches from my lips, "WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE, YOU CLUELESS, HOITY-TOITY REDNECK? IT'S A SIMPLE QUESTION! WHAT DID THE GUY THAT SLICED UP FOUR MEN ALL ON HIS OWN LOOK LIKE AND DID ANYBODY SEE HIM DO IT??"

As soon as it was all out of my mouth, I wondered what was wrong with me.

Why was I screaming at her? This wasn't Tyra's fault. It wasn't her fault at all.

She was just a clueless, hoity-toity redneck. She always had been and she always would be.

She didn't know what she'd just done . . . she had no idea . . . no idea at all . . .

Whatever she said next, I didn't hear it. I didn't want to. The handset had already been slammed back down into the cradle, and for good measure I reached over and yanked the main plug out of the phone jack in the wall. I was too angry for tears, too tired—too stubborn—to be even a little regretful.

I tried to tell myself that I really had never liked Tyra anyway, that after this she would never speak to me again; that I would never have to listen to her big mouth; that now she wouldn't try to thoughtlessly trap me into babysitting her spoiled brat of a kid, as if I didn't have enough to deal with already . . .

My eyes fell down to my left hand, the same I'd just pulled a shard of glass out of seconds earlier. There was nothing there. No break in the skin. No clotted blood. It was just my same familiar, calloused palm.

It smelled of sweat, horses, mud, and dogs. It was stained with grass, nicotine and alcohol.

I didn't care how filthy it was. I clapped it against my mouth, afraid I'd scream if I didn't. Both knees buckled out of nowhere, banging against the lower cabinets as I grabbed for the countertop with my free hand.

Kateph had been under the kitchen table until now, and I felt pressure on my knees as she whined; rubbing her head against them. Then I remembered that the broken bottle was still scattered on the floor.

I raised my head and straightened, inhaled. Then I bent over and picked up the pieces, one by one, keeping Kateph off to the side all the while. She wouldn't stay back. I knew why.

The way I grasped the shards in my free hand until it brought blood bothered her.

"It's okay, honey," I murmured, letting a handful of glass fall into the trash bin. "It doesn't hurt me."

I'd lied, of course. To my dog, yeah. But was still a lie. Because no matter what I said, it did. It did hurt.

Every time.


	2. Caliban (2)

There are not many left. I know there aren't.

It used to be that I could feel them. Smell them. Find them, no matter where they were.

I still can. The difference is that now, there is no one left to find. Except for her.

The scent is very elusive, at least a week old every time it reaches me. It comes in on the breeze from the highway. It has been coming in that way for almost seven years now, and I have mistaken it many a time for the smell of a forest, or an animal. Sometimes, it is so faint I wonder if I've imagined it.

But of course, she's had decades of practice, she knows how to lose her scent and hide.

And the harder she tries to cover it up, the more she smells like a frightened, tired woman who just wants to run. To die.

That is the one thing left that they have in common now. They both smell like they want to die.

That, regrettably, is a scent I know all too well.

And I spend every other minute of the day trying to forget how I know that.

Just like I know that he still thinks about her.

She couldn't possibly know, though. I think it would only frighten her even more if she did.

The world used to be much wide enough for them both . . . but, like the world does for our kind, it has kept narrowing until there is almost nothing left. Nothing left but the next day. I understand that.

Because the world has narrowed for me, too. Now, it exists in sounds. In smells and sights.

The sound of an old man sleeping, and his voice when he talks to someone who doesn't even exist.

The monotonous rhythm of the boxcars rattling over the tracks, crossing the border every day.

The wind beating the bed mats on the clothesline outside, and their dusty, warm scent when I bring them back inside the warehouse. And as always, there's the clock.

I crossed to the table where it sat, oblivious to anything but it's own purpose.

Tick, tick, tick goes the clock. Always counting, waiting, just like me.

Counting every dose, giving Charles a pill or an injection and then waiting with him for the next one.

Counting out every pill for each day and trying to make them last, then waiting for the next new bottle of fosphenytoin. Fosphenytoin, or whatever it was that Logan managed to bribe the nurse into giving him for that week. And at the end of the day, there's always the lovely Texas sunshine.

You know . . . the less said on it, the better. I remember asking Logan once, why not hide Charles somewhere else? Somewhere with a little less heat. Like Oregon. Or Alaska. Or even the bloody Arctic.

The look he'd given me was enough to keep me from ever asking again.

But I suppose it's best he stays away from the north, I thought. I now held the clock in my hands, watched the minute peg move. It was fifteen minutes until Charles would require another injection.

Yes, its certainly best, I thought, reaching up onto the top of the refrigerator for the box of fresh syringes. Logan had administered the last of the prepared ones last night before leaving, and I hadn't gotten the chance to fill up any new ones. Besides, I told myself, I can't ever remember a time when he ventured that way and didn't almost get himself killed into the bargain. And if Logan were being perfectly honest for once, he'd agree with me. Not having the sufficient energy to laugh, I snorted instead, knowing Mexico itself would freeze over before he did such a thing.

If he would be honest, he would also admit that he's not healing anymore.

And if he were being really honest, he would also admit that he is dying.

He knows he is. I know that he is. He knows that I know that he is.

But then again, I suppose it's more obvious to me than to others.

I've heard him coughing when he thinks that Charles is asleep, or whe he thinks that I can't hear.

Deep, racking coughs that bring up blood. I can smell the whiskey that he keeps on him at all times, just to ensure that he can drag along all of his three hundred pounds. And I can hear the unevenness in his step when the booze affects him enough to put him half in the bag, but not enough to let him sleep.

Which is just something else he can't do anymore.

I suppose it'd be awfully pessimistic of me to say it: at this point, it's only a matter of time before that dratted metal skeleton of his decides to finally start poisoning him.

"That is, if it hasn't started to do so already. And it probably has."

All of a sudden I can hear him from here, all the way inside the warehouse. I barely kept myself from dropping the syringe. Its Charles' voice. And he's in my head. Again.

"I wonder how much of this it would take to kill me!"

My eyes closed briefly as I opened the refrigerator. I tell myself that he doesn't know what he's doing, that he can't help it, that it's really not his fault at all. It helps. A little. Very little. Very.

As I've done more times than I can count, I take out the latest bottle of fosphenytoin and close the refrigerator. There is a soft click as I take off the needle cap, a dull pmp as I drive the needle through the bottle seal; a squelch as I slowly siphon the dosage into the measuring chamber; an exhalation as I realize that I really will have to go out there. And that Charles has never been especially fond of me.

Hurriedly, I replaced the needle cap on the syringe and pocketed it, walking all the while towards the room built into the back wall, where all of my wrappings and hat were waiting.

It was a slow process. Winding up both arms and fitting the poncho over my shoulders, tying a rag around my mouth and nose; and pulling the boots on. Then came the hat—with the widest brim I could afford—and last of all, the glasses. I didn't need a mirror. I knew how ridiculous I looked.

I've been l told something along those lines more times than I could count.

With a swathed hand, I pulled up on the door latch that opened to outside, pulling back out of the light. It was pure instinct, and a foolish one. Nothing could really hide me from it.

The stale afternoon air filled my lungs as I closed the door behind me, and took the first step in a twenty-foot journey. I was not at all looking forward to reintroducing myself to Charles again.

It took no amount of intuition to know that he wasn't going to be terribly glad about it, either.


End file.
